


Seasons' Love

by theauthorish



Category: Given (Manga)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 20:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theauthorish/pseuds/theauthorish
Summary: How Akihiko loves Haruki, and how it's undeniably unique.





	Seasons' Love

**Author's Note:**

> My first piece for given! It's such a wonderful anime and this is really more a drabble than a fic proper, but I hope you enjoy it!

Haruki has always believed that each love is different, unique to the people within it and the circumstances around them. So really, the fact that Akihiko loves him in a way that Haruki's never felt before isn't all that surprising. At the same time, though... it still shakes him to his core, how undeniably Akihiko is in a class all his own. If this ever ends (and Haruki hopes it doesn't), he's certain nothing will ever compare. Not in the slightest.

Akihiko touches like he plays the violin-- it's ridiculously gentle, the barest whisper of a touch to coax music from Haruki's lips, from his hands, from his heartbeat. His voice shakes, his nails curl in the sheets hard enough a thread or two snaps. His heart pounds, frantic as a rabbit's, against his ribcage. Haruki feels calloused fingertips stroke the bone of his hips like a bow across the strings of a violin, feels teeth scrape against his collarbone like the twist of a tuning peg, and he caves as easily to Akihiko's desires as Haruki imagines his instrument must, under hands so meticulous and patient. There's a melody here, Haruki thinks. If he tries hard enough, he can almost hear it: the melding of their breaths mixing with the soft rasp of Akihiko's voice, shaping praises that feel like offerings that go down like nectar, honey-sweet and sunset-gold.

And then Akihiko stretches up to kiss him and all thought skitters away, unnecessary in the face of echoing his movements. Harmony is something Haruki's always been good at, and it feels like this is the moment he's been practicing for.

Akihiko kisses like he drums, hard and confident, no backing down, no hesitation. 

His fingers cradle Haruki's jaw, firm yet soft, and their mouths crash together like cymbals, again and again and again. He licks into Haruki's mouth like he's starving for it, all passion and scraped knuckles and the boom of the bass, heavy and inescapable as the beat of the breath in his lungs. He dips down to tongue at Haruki's throat like he aims to drink the percussion of his heartbeat through his skin and his veins. He'll have a glass full of blood like red wine if he asks for it; the knowledge of that makes Haruki shiver. It's his pulse in Haruki's veins right now, his metronome that Haruki's heart throbs in time with. But the thing is, Haruki allows it--

If he asked Akihiko to stop, he would, no questions asked. (Not that Haruki would ever ask.)

And gods, the things Akihiko says. He talks the same way he smokes, lips parting, curling around the syllables of Haruki's name the way they settle around a cigarette. The shape is familiar, the forming of it so much a habit that it's almost instinctual. Somehow there's a flair to it-- he makes Haruki's name sound far more special than it is, makes it sound appealing, the breathy h, the soft roll of the r, the edges of the k… He says it slow. Deliberate.

Blatantly flaunting it, like it's something worth showing off, even if that's only to the dark of the apartment and Haruki himself.

His voice comes trailing into the open air, wisps of his smoke, heady and rich, deep enough to rumble down to the marrow of Haruki's very bones. It tastes of the steel in his lips, of the dregs of beer swilling at the bottom of the cup. Just enough to wet your lips, leaving you wanting more. Always more. It clings to the walls of Haruki's throat as if it plans to make a home there. Cancerous, maybe, but the death is too good for Haruki to quit. He couldn't even if he wanted to-- he isn't the smoker this time, after all. It's all secondhand.

But more than that, Akihiko presses promises into his skin, croons sweet words and encouragements and  _ I-love-you-I-really-do-gods-you're-perfect _ 's against the pads of his fingers, the curve of his hip, the curl of his hair against his temples… and it's almost like--

Well, it's almost like he's addicted. The words are nicotine, and Akihiko's dependent-- now that he can say them and mean every syllable of them, he can't get enough… or so it sounds like. Haruki's head is swimming from the sheer amount of sensation coming from Akihiko's attentions, from the heady feeling of not-enough-oxygen that comes with breathing in the smog, and that's not even mentioning the weight of Akihiko's body against Haruki's-- so that makes processing and analyzing things a little bit of a non-priority.

"Haruki," Akihiko murmurs, "Let me--"

"Yes," Haruki gasps. Akihiko stares at him, stilling.  _ You don't even know what I'm asking _ , says his gaze, though he can't seem to say it. His breath is heavy, ragged, and Haruki feels a small sense of triumph. He did that. No one else. This is his piece de resistance: Akihiko, wanting and desperate, yet languid and unhurried; Akihiko, looking like he's never needed anything else.

He cups Akihiko's cheek in his hands and says, because it needs to be said-- now that it's true, now that Akihiko has proven time and time again that he was, indeed, the better man he had set out to become-- "Yes. I trust you, Aki. I know you won't hurt me."  _ Not this time _ , goes unsaid, but it is not a bitter thing.

After all, in the end, they learned. They grew better.

Akihiko smiles--

And their symphony reaches its crescendo.

/////


End file.
